When RH was very young, I was not in touch with him. I was a detached parent. I felt so uncomfortable when he cried. He cried a lot. And the more he cried, the more I wanted to be away from him. Sometimes, a lot of times, I wished I was far, far away.
To make my baby boy stop crying, I would do what was most effective. RH responded well to distractions. When he was upset, he would calm down when he was jiggled, carried, walked, and rolled along on a stroller. He wasn’t so receptive to pats on the back. He didn’t like me singing him songs. (I was awkward singing him songs). He was not interested in books, at least not yet. When he’s agitated, and I breastfeed him, he would sometimes turn away. There are times when he would suckle and close his eyes. But after a little while, he would be at it again.
RH was a baby who wailed a lot. He made such a fuss! When he was awake, he couldn’t stop moving. When he was bothered, I had to keep on entertaining him. My first born son exhausted me. I thought to myself, “”I don’t ever want to go through this again. I wish he would just grow up. Fast. So he could deal with me intelligently.”
I have a problem dealing with people who demand too much of me. Especially emotionally, and especially if it was family.
Prominent child psychologist Dr. Fran Walfish characterizes different parenting styles in her book, “The Self-Aware Parent.” If I follow her line of thought, then I am a Detached parent, as well as an Explosive and Controlling one. Walfish states that if we do not consciously work on our parenting skills, we will end up copying the destructive patterns of our parents. It also works in reverse. Wonderful if you had a kind, warm, loving, openhearted, gentle, and wise parent. But who does? Not mine, certainly.
My mother is a primary education teacher. (She is still one at the age of 60.) Before K to 12, there was High School, and she has been teaching classes in High School as far as I remember. Because she worked with kids, she had a nice touch. But she was not in touch with me. I was weird. I challenged her mentally, and because she was a devout Christian, there is a hedge between us. It has been there since I was a child. She let go of me, mentally and physically quite early. She was a detached parent.
My father was Controlling, no doubt. He was anxious all the time, and his mood would go up and down. He was unpredictable, he was intense. He was Explosive. Living with him was bonkers. Sometimes, he would be so happy, he would go all out. He would binge buy food, he would take me on a shopping spree, and he would eat and eat. (He would say he’d take his blood pressure and diabetes maintenance drugs later.) And then the next day he would be sullen. Upset. Angry at me. All of a sudden, there are SO MANY wrong things with me. He would shout, curse and insult me. He would tell me I wasn’t supposed to be born, I was the ugliest, stupidest person he ever fathered, and all my nerves would go raw.
If we do not consciously work on our parenting skills, we will end up copying the destructive patterns of our parents.
Together, my parents taught me the value of forethought. My father encouraged me to think in a linear way. He taught me that planning ahead is good. He was a businessman and in his line of work, planning and strategic thinking are necessary. My mother excelled in setting down rules and schedules for us kids to follow. There is a saying that goes, “You can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you cannot take the classroom out of the teacher.” This adage is so true of her. In hindsight, thinking ahead served me well in academics and in my career. But because I am just as human, I thought it would work with kids. Unequivocally. In all aspects of behavior.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
Hypothesis Failed.
When I was a new mother, I was full to the hilt with anxiety. As a result, I put RH on a tight schedule. I put myself on a tight schedule. I would even bow out on meeting other people just to stick to my schedule. I remember one time I was with my spouse and my mother-in-law in a mall. I was not attuned to her and what she wanted to do. I just wanted to rush back to the car because it was 4pm and it was time to breastfeed RH. No, it did not matter whether RH wanted to breastfeed or not. It did not matter what my mother-in-law wanted to do. I didn’t even consider if my spouse (Erwin) still wanted to do a few things in the mall. It was breastfeeding time and that was it.
There are thousands of permutations of this event. Another memory I recall was walking RH endlessly in a stroller. It was Nap Time. He needed to sleep. I did not check that he wasn’t really sleepy. Anyway, do his feelings matter? I am running a tight ship here! If he ruined the schedule, it will be terrible for me because I might not be able to have a sound amount of sleep later that night. For me at that point, if RH deviated from the schedule, my life was ruined. At least for the next 24 hours. I was so obsessed with maintaining the schedule that as a family, we never had a vacation until RH was two. Even then, during the short respite, I carried all the rituals along with me.
In Motherhood 101, THERE ARE NO GRADES.
Some people like working without deadlines, some people love to operate without a daily list of goals, some people hate being graded, BUT NOT ME. I find security in boundaries. I can’t perform well without goals. I am like this. And sometimes, I am appalled why I cannot function without a tether.
When I trace it back and analyze, the main reason why I am like this is because I grew up with a volatile, unpredictable father. He created an environment that was volatile and unpredictable too. In order to have peace, I had to have order in my universe. I have to know my parameters. I was the best way I knew to keep myself sane.
I need to know. Who will intrude, what factors will interfere, what interruptions there will be. When I can’t plan, I panic. I am afraid someone will explode on me.
Go ballistic, go apeshit, get too happy, get too sad, uncontrolled unpredictability, the bane of my existence. The death of rules and order. Chaos, the end of me.
My schedules with RH were insane. Poor planful me was torn to bits. I was back there in the same ugly scenario, but instead of an unpredictable, volatile father, I now had an unpredictable, irrational toddler. I wasn’t in a good place. Again.
But soon my son did grow up. I got used to his intrusions, his demands. I slowly “got” him. Even if I was not the most responsive mother of all time, I was with him all the time. (I did not have any household help whatsoever. It was either me or Erwin taking care of him.) I have insider knowledge of how to make my son tick. We had a relationship. Although it wasn’t perfect, it worked. Somehow.
RH is seven years old now.
I don’t see him so often. On weekdays, he is busy with school until 3:00 PM. When he comes home, he is chatty and he asks me repetitive questions. Annoying, repetitive questions. But I don’t mind. His annoying, repetitive questions are a way for him to bond with me. I answer him to the best of my ability, using my dictionary, smartphone, laptop and wits. He has questions about the Titanic, the abacus, Jose Rizal, and the Khan. He tells me stories of his day in rambling seven-year-old narratives. He badgers me to help him with this and that. He fidgets. He eats and scatters crumbs all over. He plays music, he plays Lego, he colors, and he lines up his trucks…all at the same time. Hoho.
He is a bundle of Joy.
He drives me nuts.
He has not really changed from before.
But I have.
I stayed. I did not brush him away. I grew up with him. I grew to not only tolerate him, but love his impish ways. He is like that. I will have this kind of son, with these qualities and no other. This is my son.
If we do not consciously work on our parenting skills, we will end up copying the destructive patterns of our parents.
I am following Dr. Walfish’s recommendation. I am working on self-awareness.
Insert floaty music, images of a Zen garden.
I am a Self-aware parent. I am working on BEING a self-aware parent. I am going to be the BEST MOM ever!!!
My mother was detached. My father was explosive and controlling. I am all three, in varying degrees.
But there is hope for me.
Hope for me…
Hope for me…
I am avoiding my parent’s mistakes. They were as well-meaning as I am now with my son. But I have a trump card. I am learning a new skill set. I am into psychology. I will not fail my son.
Or at least I am going to do my damn best until the day I die. Or when RH says goodbye.
“Bye mom, I don’t need you now. I am seventeen and I have acne and I have my friends and I am shutting you out of my life.”
RH will not need me for long. One day, he will move on. It is a matter of time.
My mother once asked me why I dropped my full-time job to take care of him. (I was a college instructor, into education too. Obviously following her path.)
Why didn’t I care more about my job?
I said I did. But not as much as I loved the dirty job. Of raising my son.
It is the hardest job I’ve ever had.
